


Blind Truth

by ladydeathfaerie



Series: The Red Room [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Blindfolds, Gags, Knife Play, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Past Non-Con, overtones of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Phil are months into their relationship, but not everything is smooth sailing. There are still things Clint hasn't told Phil about his life before meeting Phil, things that can harm the trust they've already built. All it takes is one minor set back to destroy the trust they've already built.</p>
<p>
  <i>"Are you sure you want to do this, Clint? You don't have to do it if you're uncomfortable. We can put it aside for now or even for good. I just want you to be safe and sure." </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>"Of course I'm sure." </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luuv2shop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luuv2shop/gifts).



> this is the first of my two offered auction fics. my winning bidder, the lovely luuv2shop, wanted to see an addition to my story _The Red Room_ showing how Clint learned to fully trust Phil. she also wanted to see if Clint would use his safe word whilst in scene with Phil. this is my humble effort to give her what she wanted. i hope she enjoys. 
> 
> since there is no set length of time in _The Red Room_ , i cannot say exactly when in their relationship the events of _Blind Truth_ happen. what i do know is that it takes place some where between their first discussion, when Clint tells Phil about some of his past relationships and the abuse he's suffered, and the ending, when Clint and Phil walk into the Red Room as a couple very much at ease with themselves.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Phil asked softly. Clint knew the man was standing right behind him, was sure he had no doubt caught Clint's hesitation when he'd laid the length of black, silky material in Clint's hands. He kind of hated that Phil could read him so well already. 

It shouldn't be such a big deal. It was nothing more than a length of material. It wasn't like it was going to do horrible things to him. And Phil wasn't like anyone else with whom he'd ever gotten involved. He shouldn't have had problems with the damn thing. And yet... "Are you sure you want to do this, Clint? You don't have to do it if you're uncomfortable. We can put it aside for now or even for good. I just want you to be safe and sure." 

"Of course I'm sure," Clint replied brightly, doing his best to push down any apprehension and fear he felt. He _could_ do this. He was strong and capable. And Phil wasn't... someone else. Turning, he held the material out toward Phil. Made sure there was a resolute look on his face. Because there was no way he was going to chicken out of this. There was already a touch of disappointment in Phil's eyes that said he really wanted to do the scene. Clint should be able to handle it for his partner. He let suggestion creep into his expression. "Why wouldn't I want you to tie me up?"

"Clint," Phil sighed, body language suggesting that he wasn't buying it. Clint inched closer, gave Phil the most honest expression he could manage. 

"I'm sure, Phil. Let's do this." 

The other man stared at him for a short time, gaze intent and searching. After several seconds, he made a face Clint couldn't read and shook his head. Then he stepped into Clint's personal space and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, his gaze pinned Clint in place, making him feel distinctly like a butterfly on display. "Alright. We'll do it. But if you have any problems, any problems at all, you tell me. This is supposed to be a trust building exercise. Not a chance for you to be a macho idiot. Do you understand?" 

It still surprised Clint to hear the concern and care in Phil's voice. They'd been together for months now, had worked through so much of Clint's bullshit to get to this point in their relationship. While there had been no real declarations of love from either one of them, there was a depth of emotion there on both sides that Clint hadn't really examined too closely. Rationally, he knew that Phil cared. But it was still surprising when he showed he cared. Clint took a deep breath and willed himself calm. "I understand, Phil." 

Phil gave him a hard stare for half a minute before nodding with satisfaction and then going about laying out the items they'd be using for this session. The satiny black material Clint had been holding only moments ago was left resting innocuously on the bed, folded into a neat rectangle. He watched as Phil laid out two sets of wide leather cuffs. One set to restrain his hands and the other to bind his feet. Clint had to steel himself against the shudder that washed through him. 

The cuffs didn't bother him. He and Phil had used them plenty of times before, in various configurations, as they'd explored their physical and emotional limits. He hadn't admitted as much, but Clint did enjoy being tied down. At least, he did with Phil. It had been touch and go at the beginning, for various reasons that he hadn't gotten into, but Phil had been wonderful about it and they'd moved into bondage as slowly and as surely as they'd moved into their relationship. He enjoyed the cuffs because there was something freeing about not being able to take hold of Phil and direct him toward those places Clint wanted Phil to be. 

No, he had no problems with the cuffs. All of his issues stemmed from that innocent looking piece of black material. There were bad memories associated with it and part of him really did not want to let Phil tie it in place. But Clint was never going to grow as both a sub and as an individual if he didn't learn how to work past bad memories. It was important to him to do this. Okay, so maybe he was letting his own stubborn nature make his decisions for him. He just hated that Phil was always so patient and understanding and amazing every time Clint couldn't get his shit together. 

He _needed_ to do this. For Phil. And for himself. 

When he looked up and away from the items Phil had laid out on the bed, it was to find the man staring at him intently. Clint forced himself to relax and let it go, took a deep breath and pushed the tension out when he exhaled. The smile he gave Phil wasn't blinding, but neither was it forced. It prompted Phil to cross the room and step into directly into Clint's personal space. His hands came up and cupped Clint's cheeks, the touch so tender that Clint had to wonder if Phil really did know what was going on inside Clint's head. Then their lips were touching and all thoughts were just simply gone. 

The kiss they shared was soft and sweet, a gentle thing that made promises. They moved slowly, lips and tongues exploring without any real intent. Their hands drifted and traced well known paths hidden by the barrier of clothes that lay between them. Clint's fingers were deft on the buttons of Phil's shirt, quickly plucking each round disk from its hole until the entire row was undone and the tails were left tucked into his trousers. At the same time, Phil's hands worked at tugging Clint's worn t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans, taking it slow so that the cottony material stretched with each pull. By the time they broke apart so that Phil could pull the shirt up over Clint's head and remove it, they were both struggling for breath and eager for the feel of bare skin sliding against bare skin.

Undressing one another was one of Clint's favorite parts of any session. He loved letting the tips of his fingers glide against Phil's flesh as the layers of clothing fell away. He loved feeling connected to the other man by way of such a simple act. He loved the slow build of emotions and need and desire. There was little about it that he didn't love. It was an act of freedom. But more than that, it was an act that left him with a sense of power that he'd rarely felt in his previous relationships.

It was highly probable that Clint had never had a really healthy relationship before. He knew Tasha had tried her best. But Clint had been far too needy for her and, together, they'd made the wrong kind of sub and Domme. The thing with Bobbi had come really close. For a short while, anyway. But Clint was man enough to admit that he and Bobbi had been so wrong for one another. The attraction had been sudden and instant, like setting a match to a candle's wick. But that wick had turned out to be the fuse on a keg of dynamite. No. She was better off without him and while he still loved her, he knew that they had never been meant to be anything more than friends. 

The sad truth was those were the two best relationships Clint had had before Phil. Neither one had been very long. And neither one had really had the chance to show him what a good relationship could be. He hadn't discovered that until Phil. And now, so many months into this thing, he'd learned so much more about himself and what being with someone else really meant. Relationships, good ones, had to do with things like balance and emotions and trust and communication. They were very much like a healthy D/s relationship. Clint was sad to say, this was the first time he'd had either one of them. 

It was probably stupid of Clint to let such thoughts run through his head at such a moment, but he needed to do it. Because if he didn't, he forgot them. Phil was so damned good at blanking his mind that he had to force himself to recall the reasons why he was still in this. Because he'd considered running away. More than once. Every time it got hard or deep or things drifted into places he didn't feel comfortable, Clint considered running away. That was something he was good at. But Phil made him want to be good. Better than he was. Because Phil never treated him as anything other than another human being.

And that was what made this thing between them so fucking amazing. And addictive. Phil always made sure that Clint was comfortable with the events that occurred between them. Phil always treated him as if he was an equal. Clint's thoughts and opinions and feelings always mattered. It was heady stuff. It was also frightening as hell. And that was what made the thing between them so much worse. Because Clint was so used to being treated as a sub by everyone. He'd been treated that way so long that he'd started believing that was all he really was.

"Enough, Clint," Phil's voice cut across his thoughts. Not his most powerful voice, but still with enough strength to draw Clint away from his musings and back to the present. Phil was staring at him, a faint hint of disapproval touching his eyes. He'd obviously seen Clint slip into the past and he was letting him know that he didn't like it. "I want you here and now. With me. Because I want you to enjoy this. With me." 

"Yes, sir," Clint replied softly. Phil stared at him for a few seconds longer, then leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to Clint's lips. A reminder and, again, a promise. 

Phil stepped back and let his gaze rake up and down Clint's form. His jeans were undone, the fly hanging open invitingly. His feet were bare, pale against the wood beneath them. Phil allowed his attention to focus on the long length of Clint's toes for a few moments before he shifted it to the play of muscles in his chest. The look in Phil's eyes was enough to kick start Clint's heart into overdrive and anticipation poured through him in thick, enticing waves. Finally, Phil focused on the obvious tent in Clint's jeans. There was so much heat and desire in that look. Enough to see Clint groaning low in the back of his throat even as his cock twitched under the heavy layer of denim. "Finish it," Phil instructed, voice rough and hoarse. 

There was no hesitation in Clint's actions. He hooked his fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, gave them a tug as he bent over. They were difficult to pull down, the worn denim holding tight to every inch of his flesh. When they finally touched the floor, he kicked them away from his feet. They ended up somewhere on the other side of Phil's bedroom, immediately forgotten as he righted himself and stood without shame under Phil's watchful stare. Phil nodded his approval, then one hand motioned to the bed.

It was a silent order, one Clint followed without hesitation. He crossed the floor in a few steps and took up position in the center of the bed. When he was stretched out, head resting on the pillows, Phil came over to join him. "We're going to start now. Are you ready?" Phil asked him. 

"I'm ready, sir," Clint told him. Phil nodded, then settled one hand on Clint's left leg, just below the knee. The man's touch was light and steady as it slowly made its way toward his ankle. Deft fingers caressed the swell of his calf before stroking the top of his foot. There was a kind of magic in Phil's touch and Clint could feel the tension slowly easing out of him. He gladly sank into the softness of the pillow top beneath him and his eyes slid closed on a sigh. 

One thing Clint had learned the first time he'd allowed himself to be cuffed to the bed was that Phil liked to touch. Phil touched the way some men stared, his fingers and hands moving with slow, excruciating precision over every single inch of flesh shared with him. This time was no different from that time or any other that had come in between. His fingers explored the soft skin on the bottom of Clint's foot, mapped the length of his toes, traced the tendons across the top, teased the curve of his heel. It was an unusual thing to be stimulated by because he'd never been turned on by people touching his feet before. But this was Phil.

Time ticked by, seconds and minutes sliding away into nothing as Phil's fingers touched every inch of Clint's feet and calves. It could have been only a handful of them. Or it could have been a lifetime of them. Clint didn't know. He didn't care. All that mattered was that touch and how it drove him wild. Phil was well aware of just what he could do to Clint with little more than the tips of his fingers and he used that knowledge to his advantage, pushed Clint until he took him to the very edge of madness. And just as Clint was about to topple over the edge, Phil's hands were gone. That wide strap of worn leather was left in their place.

Almost before Clint registered the snug feel of the leather band curved around his ankle, Phil's hands moved on to his other foot to start the process all over again.

Fingers stroked over his ankle bone, sending tendrils of something hot and liquid up Clint's leg. There was a gentle brush against his heel, drawing a soft sigh that tolled like the ringing of a bell through the room. Agile fingers glided over the arch of his foot, the touch so soft it almost wasn't there. Clint's brain stopped functioning. At that same moment, every single nerve ending in his body lit up like a Christmas tree and flooded him with sensation and need. Each teasing touch pushed him closer and closer toward a well of golden euphoria. Every careful caress saw Clint settling deeper and deeper into the mattress and himself.

There were no words spoken while Phil worked at securing Clint's feet. Often times, there were no words spoken over the course of a session unless Phil asked questions or the scene they were involved in called for verbal communication. Once upon a time, Clint had been accused of being the mouthiest sub to ever live and it was suggested that he didn't know how to remain silent. He'd come to understand that it was less to do with his inability to rein himself in and more to do with the fact that some people just didn't know how to turn his brain off. Phil had proven that he was more than capable of such a feat.

"I always enjoy the contrast of the dark leather cuffs against your skin, Clint." The voice pulled him away from that deep well only slightly and it took far too long for Clint to focus on it. His eyes fluttered open, focused on where he knew Phil would be standing. The man was in his usual place, at the end of the bed with both hands curled so tightly around the iron work of the footboard. His gaze was focused on one of Clint's feet, where black leather and tanned skin met. Just the weight of his gaze was enough to send tingles racing along Clint's spine, making him fight against the urge to shudder in response. 

The pull of the leather against his ankles told him that Phil had already hooked the cuffs wrapped around them to the footboard. That meant the man had spent a very long time teasing Clint's feet because he couldn't even recall hearing the click of the hooks when Phil had locked them into place. "I can only imagine how the blindfold is going to look against your cheeks." 

It was almost enough to douse his growing need. Almost. Clint had practically forgotten what the goal of this session was until Phil's mention of the blindfold. Clint had the sneaking suspicion that such had been Phil's plan. Which meant that Phil had indeed seen the hesitation. Clint was a moment away from saying something when Phil's gaze lifted and found Clint's face. Again, the weight of the other man's gaze pressed down upon him and left Clint incapable of moving or speaking. A faint smile curled up the corner's of Phil's mouth. "Sit up so that I can fit the blindfold in place, Clint."

There may have been a smile on Phil's face, but his voice was his most demanding. It was the one that Phil used when Clint was being especially difficult. The strength and sheer dominance that he'd put in it did exactly what he'd intended, too. Clint found himself sitting up in the center of the bed. There was a slight hesitancy to his movements that he was sure the other man saw. 

He watched as Phil reached for the folded length of black material, movements made so very casually and without any rush in them at all. Seeing Phil moving so normally helped soothe Clint's nerves and a bit of the tension leaked out of his shoulders. He was careful to keep his hands at his sides, fingers as lax as he could make them. He could do this. He _could_. 

Phil reached up, one hand empty and one hand curled loosely around the silky fabric, and laid his palms against Clint's cheek. He couldn't help but take notice of the two sensations that touch presented to him. One side was work-roughened skin and callouses rubbing against his stubble and flesh. The other side was slippery silk sliding soothingly over the curve of his cheek. Both feelings were enough to see his eyes fluttering shut ever so slowly as a small kernel of need burst open inside of him. Thin tendrils of need climbed through him like vines, coiling together to form a tight ball low in his belly. It was insane how easy it was for Phil to take Clint right to the edge like that with little more than a simple touch.

"I won't hurt you, Clint. Relax and trust me," Phil whispered in his ear a moment before the silk slid across his face. There was such warmth in the other man's voice that Clint barely reacted when the black material settled over his eyes as softly as a wisp of cloud. Phil said nothing as he tied it in place, but he was so close that Clint could feel the heat of his body. The fine weave of his dress shirt rubbed enticingly against one of Clint's nipples, bringing shudders to life that Clint couldn't stop. And it reminded him that Phil had yet to take his clothes off. Clint wanted to say something about it, but the moment his mouth opened, Phil's was there to cover it.

This kiss was still slow, but it was all heat. Fire licked at every single one of Clint's nerve endings as Phil leaned closer. As the other man's mouth moved over his own. As Phil's tongue slid inside to glide against Clint's own tongue. 

By the time they were forced to break apart for much needed air, Clint was once again loose and relaxed. Phil's hand stroked over his shoulders and down his arms before lifting away to settle on his chest. A gentle push with one hand saw Clint lowering himself toward the mattress. Phil's other hand was there to help ease him down and guide him. 

Clint sank into the thick softness of Phil's bed, his body thrumming with need and his mind already slipping toward that spot in his head where there was nothing beyond pleasure and desire and the need to simply do. Phil's hands were there, gentle touches upon sensitive skin that brought to life a raging fire beneath the surface. He swore he could feel the rush of blood to his groin caused by Phil's caresses. 

Once again, Phil spent far more time than needed stroking Clint's skin. He traced the path of veins, followed tendons, teased muscles with the feathery touches of his fingertips. The raging fire was now an inferno, burning away at his inhibitions and his doubts to leave little more than aching, desperate need in its wake. Clint sighed and moaned and shivered as Phil let his hands map the shape of Clint's biceps and triceps. He squirmed shamelessly when Phil focused his attention on Clint's hands and fingers. Time ceased to matter or even exist as need doubled and expanded and filled him until he thought he would burst.

And then Phil's touch was gone, replaced with the snug fit of the leather cuff as it coiled around his wrist and held his arm in place. 

It felt like an eternity later when Phil's hands found Clint's other arm. He barely registered that there was a difference in the intensity of his emotions, that the burning need and hunger had started to wane, before Phil's touch was there to build them up again. Once more, fingers glided across his skin to lay invisible claim to every inch of his arm, memorizing by touch each dip and rise of muscle. Each line of taut tendon and each rolling vein. He stroked each finger, shaped their length and the way the tips of them curved. And every single touch turned Clint into a mindless mass of need that couldn't even manage to beg for more. 

The kiss of leather as it circled his wrist was enticing and frightening all at the same time. Phil had worked hard to shut down all of Clint's thoughts and memories, to give them both the opportunity to enjoy the scene they'd planned so meticulously together. But there was a small part of Clint's brain was still cognizant of all that went on around him. It poked at him when the last cuff locked in place, letting him know that something about this was wrong.

He forced himself to relax, to breathe deep and slow and steady. He told himself that Phil would never do anything to hurt him. The man had told him that often enough. And he'd never once raised his voice in anger or lifted a hand in threatened violence. The feelings they shared for one another ran deep. Clint knew that Phil was the most amazing person, that he would never lay a hand on Clint for any reason beyond pleasure. Clint _knew_ these things as surely as he knew his own name. 

But the touches stopped and Phil's weight lifted from the bed. There was nothing to be heard, either. It didn't matter how hard Clint strained his hearing. He couldn't even catch a hint of Phil's breath as it moved in and out of his chest. Clint's heart started to pound. Just a little. His breath sped up. This was just like that time with Duquesne.

The mere thought of that day saw his breath hitch in his chest. His heart pounded so hard that it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. One hand clenched into a fist without conscious thought. All of the pleasure slid away from him, washed out of him to leave him empty and hollow. _Afraid._

The past rose up to swallow the present, a tidal wave of thoughts and feelings and things that he'd thought long forgotten. That he'd fervently hoped would stay buried and hidden away. Just like that, Clint found himself floundering in the clinging depths of a memory that had mocked him in dreaming and waking moments alike.

_The blindfold fit snugly, blocked all light. The gag was wedged hard between his teeth, the ball stretching his lips wide around it. Clint tugged at the cuffs that held his wrists and ankles, not surprised that they held firm. He hadn't expected anything else, but a small kernel of worry gnawed at him and made him test them all the same. He had the sense that something wasn't quite right._

_Silence filled the room, along with the stale scent of old cigarette smoke. He couldn't hear Jacques breathing. Either the man was all the way on the other side of the room or he'd left it completely. Which meant Clint might be stuck like this for a few minutes or a few hours or even most of the day. Dread formed in his stomach, a tight knot that dampened some of his initial pleasure. If Jacques was there, if he saw it, he didn't care. Clint started hoping and praying that this was not going to go the way he was sure it would go._

The silence stretched, grew heavy and painful. Clint's ears strained for a hint of sound anywhere, but there was nothing to be heard. The first faint flutters of panic came to life in his chest, forcing his heart to beat a little faster and his breathing to speed up. Clint swallowed, tried to push down on the fear that wanted to run wild through his veins. This was Phil. Phil wouldn't hurt him. Phil had promised.

Clint allowed that to run through his head as a mantra. 'It was Phil. Phil wouldn't hurt him. Phil had promised.' He forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. It helped a little, calmed his breathing enough that he didn't feel like he was gasping for air. But he could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, could still feel the very edges of panic trying to unravel his hold on logic and rational thought. He was going to lose his hold on his sanity if he didn't have something to anchor him. 

The room was far too quiet. Phil needed to make some kind of noise. Clint had always joked that Phil was far too stealthy for someone who wasn't a spy, but that had been when he'd been able to actually see what was going on. But this was no joking matter. This was one of Clint's worst memories come to life. Again.

_Time stretched out around him, taunting and teasing as he tugged at his bonds. This was not what Clint had signed up for. He'd told Jacques before they started that he didn't like the idea of being so completely powerless. The man's braying laughter still rang in his ears even now and he could still hear Duquesne calling him a coward. Clint could admit that he was slow on the draw sometimes and this had been one of them. Jacques had played him and goaded him right into the cuffs._

_A finger ran up the length of his thigh, brushed against the half-hardened length of his cock before dipping between Clint's thighs to stroke lightly over his balls. A not entirely unpleasant shudder ran up his spine and an answering flow of blood headed for his crotch. A faint chuckle hit the air for a few seconds, just enough to see Clint turning his head toward the source of the sound. His motions brought forth more laughter. It rang out from all sides of him, telling him that there were several people in the room. The knot of dread burst open and allowed tendrils of the emotion to slither through him._

_He pulled at the bonds again, straining until the leather cut into wrists and ankles alike. When he sagged back against the bed, a hand was there to wrap around his cock and give it a few strokes. The touch was light and gentle. Teasing. Coaxing. It convinced his blood to flow back to his groin. He was fully hard and erect in the blink of an eye. The hand lifted away, but only for a moment. When it returned, it was to fasten a ring around the base of his erection. The metal was cold and it fit far too tightly. Clint pulled at the restraints once more._

There was a soft whisper of sound, possibly the brush of Phil's trouser legs against one another. It drew Clint back to the present to find that his hands were fisted, arms already tense against the hold of the cuffs. Why didn't Phil speak to him? If he talked, it would give Clint something to focus on. Something to hold him in the here and now. Or maybe if Phil stroked a hand down Clint's arm. Along his thigh. Maybe the touch of Phil's skin on his own would hold him firmly in the present. 

He just needed Phil to touch him...

_There were hands on him, touching him everywhere. One hand was still teasing his cock while another worked at his balls. Neither hand was gentle in their tasks, leaving Clint resting on the razor thin edge between just enough pain to be pleasurable and too much to be anything but pain. Both sensations were caught in a battle of tug of war, each one vying for dominance. There were fingers plucking at his nipples, squeezing them and pulling them and twisting them. Any sound he made was lost behind the gag. Under the harsh laughter of the men in the room with him._

_He knew that one of them was Duquesne. He could still catch the faint aroma of the man's favored beer under the other scents that filled his nose. Aftershave. Sweat. Dirt. Odors that mingled together, that combined until they were one thick, cloying stench that filled Clint's nose. That choked him until he felt like he was drowning._

_He hadn't agreed to this. This was not something he wanted to do. He snarled behind the gag, trying to make himself heard and understood. His voice was muffled, his words garbled and incomprehensible. It brought more laughter from his tormentors. It made him scream behind the gag, made him utter every curse he could think of. And still they laughed._

Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He could feel where it had dampened the edges of the blindfold. The cloth stuck to his skin, taunting him with its presence. Clint pulled against the cuffs again, muscles straining as he tried his hardest to break his bonds and free himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he was trapped. And the memory was pouring into him, filling him up with fear and loathing and shame. 

Again there was that hint of sound, the one that spoke to cloth brushing against itself with movement. Clint didn't know whether he should be afraid or relieved. He was having a hard time remembering what was past and what was present. All he could think or feel was that he was bound and helpless and anyone could do to him anything they wanted.

The bed dipped beside him as someone settled on the edge of the mattress. 'It was Phil. Phil wouldn't hurt him. Phil had promised.' He felt the words fumble through his brain in an attempt to anchor him in the present. For a moment, he thought that it would be alright and relief started to wash through him. Then something touched him and everything was swept away on a tide of crisp, remembered pain.

_It was a knife. He knew it was a knife. The tip was sharp and cold and it dug into his skin deep enough to leave lines of fire burning in its wake. Clint screamed behind the gag, muscles bunched and tight as he struggled to free himself. He had to get away from the pain, had to get away from the knife someone was using to carve him up like a turkey._

_His entire body was on fire. It came from the knife's point that was cutting into his flesh. It came from the cuffs that held his arms and legs securely. It came from the way his muscled tensed when he tried to free himself. It came from the ring that kept the blood from flowing out of his cock. He wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop._

_He tried screaming his safe word behind the gag._

_Thin streams of blood raced across his skin, pulled down toward the bed by gravity. He could only just feel it over the panic that grew and grew inside. Panic that was pressing against his skin, looking for a way to get out. Panic that had him thrashing against the cuffs. Panic that had eaten away at his ability to think and reason. So when he heard the squeak of the door swinging open, he wasn't at all sure it was real._

_Then came the meaty thump of flesh striking flesh. Loud, anxious shouts followed by muffled grunts. Soft hands touching him with careful, precise motions. The release of the bonds on his wrists, followed by his ankles. He tried to fight, tried to get away, and was surprised by how little strength he had left. The feel of the cock ring disappeared. Then there were hands on his face. "Clint. Clint, I need you to calm down." The gag was removed._

"Hawkeye!" It felt like the word was torn from his throat. Clint swallowed against phantom memory and drew a deep breath in an effort to steady himself. "Hawkeye. Hawkeye hawkeye hawkeye." 

He'd barely finished the word the first time when the blindfold was tugged away from his face. The room was dark, sparing his vision the hassle of having to adjust. Phil was leaning over him, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Clint, calm down. Its okay. We're done now. I promise. Just calm down and relax so I can remove the cuffs." 

Clint could only nod and lay there while Phil worked at the buckles on the cuffs. When each arm was released, Phil worked careful fingers over it until the tension leaked out of the muscles, then he moved it down to rest beside Clint's body. When he moved to work on Clint's ankles, Clint made an effort to breathe deep and slow down his pounding heart. The moment Phil had him freed from the cuffs, he sat up and pulled his legs toward him.

To his credit, Phil didn't touch him. He stayed by the end of the bed and watched Clint with eyes filled with concern and worry. Clint hugged his knees to his chest, tried hard to loosen the tightness in his chest. "I can't..." Clint began, but his voice trailed away on something that wasn't quite a sob.

"Its okay, Clint," Phil assured him. The man's voice was low and soothing. Gentle. "Its okay. Let me go get you something to drink. Take a moment to collect yourself. Put on some clothing. You can meet me in the living room when you're ready. Then we'll talk. Okay?" 

Clint took a deep breath, held it until his lungs hurt. Only when his chest felt like it would explode did he let it go in a long, slow exhale. Lifting his head, he looked up to find that Phil was still standing at the end of the bed. The earnest look on his face said that he really meant it, that Clint could take as long as he needed to calm himself. After another breath, Clint nodded an affirmative. "Okay." 

Phil stared at him for a few moments longer, then turned and left the room. Clint watched him go, took note of the fine tension that held the man's shoulders taut. When he was sure Phil was gone, he slid from the bed and sought out his discarded clothing. In the clump of denim that was his jeans, he found the boxer briefs he'd been wearing. It took no thought at all to slide into them. For a moment, Clint considered pulling on more than just his underwear, but tossed the idea aside as being pointless. 

This was Phil. He didn't need a lot of clothing to use as a shield between himself and the other man. Phil would never hurt him. He'd told him that so many times that it was something Clint had no choice but to believe. The words were etched into the folds of his brain matter. And, so far, Phil had kept that promise to him. Now wasn't the time to start doubting his sincerity. Especially since it was Clint's own stupidity that had put him where he was in the first place. Still, he hadn't yet stopped shaking and his brain was caught up in the fuzz of memory. Phil had told him to take his time. 

Clint leaned up against the wall and willed his body to stop shaking. Willed the ghost of remembered pain to leave him. 

Waited to feel normal again... 

It took him more than five minutes to be able to push away from the wall and walk on legs that were mostly steady out into the other room. Phil was sitting on the edge of the couch, a glass of orange juice resting on the coffee table before him. The man's face was as serious as Clint had ever seen it. It made him wonder just how badly he'd been freaking out. Phil rose from his seat and made an abrupt motion with his hand that Clint had never seen from him before. It made Clint realize that Phil was nervous. Maybe he even felt guilty. Phil was never anything but calm and cool and collected. Just how badly had this freaked him out?

"If you'd be more comfortable in the chair..." Phil said softly. Clint heard the hesitance in his voice and it killed him. Clint knew he came with a lot of baggage. His issues had issues. And Phil had accepted him, had _wanted_ him in spite of those issues. He'd done everything he could think of to make Clint feel safe and wanted and cherished. Yet here he was, offering Clint the opportunity to sit in a chair by himself so that he'd feel safe because Phil thought he'd done something wrong.

Once upon a time, Clint would have taken the chair without even thinking about it. But that was then. This was now. And he wanted to feel Phil's arms around him, wanted to soak in the warmth from Phil's skin. Phil was his safe place now. Clint knew that, recognized it as a simple, solid fact. There was nothing in the world that would make him hurt Phil by turning away from him.

Clint crossed the room slowly, each step full of purpose and intent, until he stood before Phil. The other man stared at him, a question in his eyes. Clint made a show of reaching for Phil's hand, then tugged at it as he sat. Phil took the hint and reclaimed his seat on the couch, settling next to Clint before reaching past him to grab hold of a blanket that lay folded along the back of the sofa. Phil's hands were steady and sure as they shook the material open. As they wrapped the soft blanket around Clint's shoulders. Then he was pressing the glass of juice into Clint's hands. It was cold, dotted with drops of moisture. Clint lifted it and took a short swallow, inwardly wincing at how the juice burned as it went down. He didn't know if he'd screamed while caught in the memories or if it was from something else. 

The juice went down slowly, each sip working at easing the remaining shakes out of Clint's limbs. As the memories faded, so did the tension. By the time Clint had reached the bottom of the glass, his body had relaxed enough to lean into Phil. 

Phil's arm was around Clint's shoulders, the weight of his hand soothing against Clint's arm. Phil had remained silent so far, allowing Clint time to pull himself together even further. But the tension he'd seen in Phil's shoulders was still there. Clint could feel it. Phil was obviously waiting to find out what had happened to Clint that would warrant such a reaction. And Clint knew that he owed it to Phil to tell him. For both of their sakes.

The silence that hung between them was heavy with expectation. For the first time in a long time, that didn't scare Clint. For the first time in a long time, his first instinct wasn't to just run and hide and ignore what had happened. And despite the expectation, Phil didn't push Clint into speaking before he was ready. It made Clint realize how far they'd come since they'd first met. Since the day Clint had decided to give Phil his safe word. It was kind of amazing how the trust had formed between them without Clint realizing it.

His fingers were lax when Phil reached up and tugged the glass from them. Clint couldn't say how long they'd been sitting in the growing silence as they had. His sense of time was still screwy after that disastrous session. God damn, he was such a fucking idiot. He shifted his gaze to the floor and stared at some speck of imagined dust under the edge of the coffee table. "I'm sorry, Phil." 

"What? Why are you sorry?" Phil's voice was mellow and low but Clint could hear the surprise in it. He'd caught the man by surprise with his apology. Phil's hand was there to cup his chin and tug his face around. Clint knew the drill and didn't bother to avoid Phil's eyes. The concern in them was stronger than before and some of the worry had faded. But now there was confusion there because Phil didn't understand what had happened. "This wasn't your fault, Clint. If its anyone's fault, its mine. Because I pushed you and you obviously weren't ready to go down that road yet." 

Clint snorted a mirthless laugh and shook his head. "You think this is your fault? This absolutely is not your fault, Phil. This is my fault." 

Phil frowned at that, obviously trying to figure out exactly what Clint meant. Surely he could guess where this was going? Clint had told him more than enough for Phil to understand what had happened back in the bedroom. "How is this your fault, Clint? We both discussed this scenario. I could tell you were apprehensive. I should have called it off before it went any further than the discussion phase. I obviously pushed you into it." 

"You've never pushed me into anything, Phil. You're the most considerate person I've ever been with," Clint admitted. It brought a ghost of a smile to Phil's face and he slid his hand up so that it cupped Clint's cheek. "This is my fault because I pushed myself into it. I wanted to give you something you really wanted. You've done everything you could to make me feel comfortable and safe. You've gone out of your way to cater to my needs. I thought I could handle this one request because it was you and you deserved it. I didn't realize that the memories were still that strong." 

Phil sighed at the admission, reaching up to scrub his hands over his face. Clint watched him as he processed what he'd been told. It really didn't take long because damn near all of Clint's issues could be traced back to one source. When Phil looked at him again, it was hard to tell what he was feeling. He'd managed to put the bland look back on. Clint had come to realize that the bland look was the one Phil used to deal with outside influences that upset him. "Duquesne?" he asked. 

"Yeah," Clint nodded, glancing at his hands for a few moments. Even though the memories were fading into the distance, just thinking about what had happened that night left his hands shaking. This was going to be hard. 

"Tell me," Phil ordered. That hint of whatever it was he possessed that made him a good Dom was there to hear in his voice, letting Clint know that there was no way he'd get out of this one. He supposed it was a good thing he didn't want to hold on to this secret anymore. Nodding, Clint huddled deeper into the blanket and let the memories come rushing out of the darkness. 

"It was our last session together. It was... " Clint paused and took a deep, fortifying breath. He could do this. He absolutely could. "It was painful and bloody and absolutely everything I'd never realized I didn't want to do until that very moment." 

"What was the scene?" Phil asked. Clint huffed a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob or anything in between. When he lifted his eyes, it was to find that Phil was watching him carefully. Looking for a lie or the truth, maybe. Not that it mattered. Clint was going to tell him the whole story and he wasn't going to pull any punches. 

"It wasn't supposed to be anything horrible. Duquesne wanted to try a blindfold and a gag. He thought it would spice things up. I should have known that his idea of spice wouldn't mesh with mine." Clint sighed and lifted a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. Neither of them made comment on the way his hand shook ever so slightly. 

"What did he do?"

"He cuffed me to the bed. Nothing new. We'd done that before. The gag was next. That didn't really give me any bad feelings. But the blindfold. That was harder to take. Because I was left with my hearing and my sense of smell. Nothing else."

"Did you agree to this, Clint?" The question was mild and steady, but Clint could sense that there were deep emotions simmering just under the surface. When he looked at Phil, he could see that the man was rapidly slipping from displeased to fucking pissed. 

"No. I didn't like the feeling I got when he mentioned the blindfold. I didn't want to do it. I even told him so. But Duquesne never listened to my complaints. So it was pointless trying to convince him to do something else." 

Phil nodded but said nothing. Clint knew he was considering what he'd been told, that he would look at it from all angles and then file it away for later use. There was no question that Phil used every ounce of information he was given. That was the way Phil was. The only question was how Phil planned on using this particular piece of information. After thinking on it, Clint decided he didn't want to know because he was more than positive that what Phil was learning here would be applied in some way to Jacques Duquesne. Finally, Phil laid his hand on Clint's blanket covered knee. "Go on." 

Clint shifted slightly, the phantom pains brought back by memory pressing relentlessly against his skin. Telling this tale was going to be hard on him. Part of him wanted to just shove it back down and pretend it hadn't happened. But he couldn't. Phil needed to know. And, in all honesty, Clint could see that he needed to talk about it. He was so fucked up and a lot of that was his own damn fault. Maybe getting this shit out of his system would help make him less fucked up. Maybe talking about it would actually help. 

"At first, nothing happened. I was tied to the bed. Blindfold and gag in place. For a second or two, I thought that my misgivings were unwarranted." Clint stopped there, swallowed hard against the shame and the fear and the pain. 

After several seconds of silence, Phil's hand squeezed Clint's knee. "But?"

"I was wrong," he replied, doing his best to keep the rampant emotions from clogging his voice. "Apparently, he used my inability to see or speak as an opportunity to let some of his friends join the party. I was nothing more than his whore." 

His voice was filled with self-loathing and he knew it. It wasn't something he could keep back, though. So much of what had happened to him was his own fault and he could see that so clearly now after spending any length of time with Phil. Clint had been young and stupid, yes. But he'd also been stubborn and had felt that he could handle anything that came his way. 

"What did they do to you, Clint?" The question was Phil's way of prodding Clint into telling him more. No doubt the other man thought that if Clint clammed up for too long, he'd stay clammed up. But the door was open now, and all of those memories were pouring out of him like blood from a fresh wound. He had no choice but to go on. 

He fixed his gaze on one of the buttons on Phil's shirt, still gaping after Clint's hands had undone them earlier. For a moment, he stared at the white disc without really seeing it. Then his vision faded out as that night took control of him once again. 

Because of the blindfold, Clint had never actually seen the faces of his tormentors. He knew Duquesne's face well enough and could conjure it up against the darkness, but he didn't know who else had been in that room that night. So all he really had from that night was scent and sound. And touch. And there had been so much touching. He'd never forget that touching. Ever.

"Clint?" Phil's voice was right beside him, but it came from so far away. Clint knew he was falling into the remembered pains and fears of that night, that he'd be swallowed up by them if he didn't do something to stop it. He curled his hands into fists so tightly that the nails on each finger dug into his palms. Kept him mostly in the here and now. "What happened that night, Clint?"

"It started out as just touching. I could smell Duquesne by the cheap smell of his beer. There was an odor of stale cigarettes. Someone had been sweating. Someone's cologne or deodorant. Dirt. I remember three or four hands. There might have been more. I don't remember. Everything is confused," Clint told him. There might have been a hint of agitation in his voice or maybe Phil just knew what he was feeling. 

"Its okay, Clint. You don't have to remember everything. Just tell me the important things." Phil's voice was like a light in the dark, guiding him down hidden paths. Clint held on to the sound, hoped it would keep the darkest of the shadows at bay. 

"I... The touches weren't bad. Not at first. Fingers stroking my legs and my arms. But that didn't last long. Soon someone brought out a cock ring. I tried to tell them to stop. I screamed behind the gag. But no one listened. They just laughed. And they kept going." Clint's words trailed off as he swallowed. His throat hurt. It was minor next to the phantom pain that raced through him. His legs hurt from long healed knife scars. Any scar Jacques Duquesne had ever given him hurt. Every inch of him inside and out was shoved into the light, visible for one and all to see.

He felt the tip of the knife break skin again, hissed out a breath. His body jerked in response to the remembered pain. He might have thrown himself off the couch if not for the warm pressure of Phil's palm leaking through the blanket.

"Someone brought a knife," Clint whispered, muscles quivering as they waited for the next phantom slice. "They started slicing into me. I kept screaming behind the gag. I even screamed out my safe word. No one listened. They laughed and ignored me and went on. I couldn't see them or what they were doing, but I could feel it all. Whoever cut me up made sure I bled."

Clint stopped there. Really, there wasn't much more to talk about. That all explained why he didn't like the blindfold, why he hated being blind and confined and just plain fucking helpless. It didn't matter that he knew that Phil wouldn't hurt him like that. Nothing he knew mattered in the face of his memories. They were too strong to ignore. And even if he could forget them, there were scars there to remind him how stupid he'd been. 

He was shaking again. There was a fine tremor in his muscles brought on by the memory of that night. He might have slipped back into the lingering hysteria if not for Phil's hand on his knee, a weighted and warm anchor to the here and now. Those gentle fingers squeezed lightly and pulled him away from the horrors that chased around the inside of his skull. Clint lifted his face so that he could look at Phil's face. Anger and sorrow darkened the blue of his eyes. "Clint." 

"I know it was my fault. I know I more or less let it happen because I didn't know what I was doing. I know--"

"Clint. What Duquesne chose to do to you is not your fault. He's the one who took advantage of you. He's sick and he should be put down for mistreating you the way he did. You might not have known what you were supposed to do, but it is not your fault that he took advantage of that," Phil assured him. He reached up and once more laid a hand against Clint's cheek. "Any time a Dom takes advantage of their sub, it is not okay. A sub puts more than just their trust into a Dom's hands. They're putting their life into that Dom's hands. And a good Dom will never, ever abuse that trust."

"I know, Phil. You taught me that," Clint replied. The shaking was, again, starting to subside. Other than the rawness of his nerves, he thought he might actually feel a little better. The memories were still there, but they didn't feel as intense and overpowering. Most of the tension was gone and his throat no longer felt as if it had been put through a cheese grater.

"Apparently I need to teach you again," Phil said, his tone dryly. Clint almost smiled to hear it, because it meant that things were good. But then Phil gave him a look that said things weren't that good yet. "What were you thinking by agreeing to this scene, Clint? Obviously it wasn't the best choice to make. So why do it?" 

There was exasperation in Phil's voice that made Clint smile. This was familiar ground. "I told you. You've been so fucking good to me. You always make sure that I get what I want and that nothing is too difficult for me. I wanted to give you this one thing because I could see just how much you wanted it."

Phil stared at him for a full minute, eyes widened in disbelief, before reaching up to rub a hand across his eyes. The sigh he gave was deep enough that Clint knew it didn't bode well. When Phil looked up again, Clint could see that they were going to discuss this bit of stupidity. Probably right away, too. Phil stood, taking the empty juice glass with him. "Don't move. I'm going to go get you more juice and a water for myself. Then we're going to talk about this... idiotic notion of yours."

"Yes, Phil," Clint replied. He watched Phil head for the kitchen, eyes locked to the once more tight set of the other man's shoulders. Oh, yeah. Clint had fucked up big time. Again. He held back the sigh and tried to stomp down on the urge to run before Phil could end it. It was a common reaction of his and he had to force himself to put the idea from his head. He knew, on a rational level, that Phil wouldn't kick him out the door for the way things had gone tonight. But old habits were hard to break. 

Clint took a deep breath and settled further back on the couch. He felt secure enough that he put his feet on the floor and loosened his hold on the blanket. The shakes were gone for the most part, though there was still an occasional tremor to contend with. And he could feel the memories of that night lingering at the back of his brain, hiding in the dark recesses in the hopes that he'd follow that path once more. He never planned indulging in them ever again if he could help it.

Before he had the opportunity to let himself think about it too much more, Phil was back. He had a small plate in one hand, piled with a some cubed cheese and meat. Nothing heavy, but enough protein to help put an end to the shakes. Phil's other hand carried a freshly poured glass of orange juice. A bottle of water was tucked under his arm, pinned between it and his rib cage. He settled beside Clint after putting the plate on the coffee table and the glass of juice in Clint's hands. The chill coming off the juice felt good against Clint's palms. 

He waited in silence, mostly patiently, for Phil to put his thoughts together. It was obvious that the man was still trying to find exactly where to start. Which told Clint just how horribly this had all gone. He was such a shitty partner. Finally, Phil took a sip of water from his bottle before putting it down on the coffee table next to the plate of nibbles. He turned his attention toward Clint. Disappointment practically oozed off of him. 

"Where on earth did you get the insane idea that you had to do something like this for me?" Phil asked. His voice was filled with gentle patience and a genuine desire to understand. 

"You've put up with my bullshit for months now. You never ask for anything. You just deal with all of my issues like that's all there is between us. I hate it. And I don't feel like I deserve that kind of attention from you. Not without giving you something in return." Clint didn't hesitate to lay it out for him because he knew that Phil wouldn't accept anything other than the absolute truth. And he probably owed Phil this and so much more. 

"What makes you think that I'm not getting anything from our encounters?" Phil asked. Clint could hear that he was puzzled by the response and really wanted to know how Clint had come to that conclusion. 

"Because you never ask for anything. You never... I don't know, Phil. It just feels like I owe you more than you're getting. I wanted to give you this because it was the first time you'd showed any kind of excitement for one of our scenes." 

He watched as Phil gave him a small smile. The man shifted on the couch so that he could look at Clint fully, then he reached out and tugged at the edge of the blanket closest to him. It fell away to show the thin, pink scars that ran up Clint's thigh. He traced one of them with the tips of his fingers, his touch ghosting lightly over the faint ridge. "Haven't you learned yet that I take my pleasure from giving you what you need? When you're laid out under me with your hair sweaty and mussed and your pupils blown wide and you can't seem to catch your breath? Those are the moments that give me the most pleasure, Clint. It isn't my job to demand you pleasure me. You allow me to dominate you because its what you want. Its what you need. I need nothing more than the look of pleasure on your face at the end of a good session or a good fucking. If I needed more, we'd discuss it as part of a scene." 

Clint stared at him, hardly able to believe that this was real. Sure, they'd been together for months now and it had been the best time of Clint's life. Phil was an amazing partner and Dom. It was obvious he cared about Clint. It was obvious that Phil had found what he wanted in their relationship. So why was it Clint couldn't leave things alone? Why did he have to fuck around with the status quo?

Clint sighed to himself. He knew exactly why he had to fuck around with the status quo the way he did. Part of it was simply because he had a hard time believing anyone would want him without any real strings attached. And part of it was because he had deep, intense feelings for Phil. Feelings that made him want to give Phil things.

Phil must have seen something in his eyes because he smiled and touched the scar a little harder. "How did you get out of this, Clint? You were tied down. You couldn't scream for help. You couldn't get away. How did you survive strangers with knives?" 

"Tasha and Bucky showed up." He managed a forced smile and shrugged the other side of the blanket down. His own fingers traced over one of the scars left on his legs that night. "I don't know how she knew to be there. I don't know how she knew where to find me. But she and Bucky showed up and they got me out of that mess. I remember Tasha's voice telling me to calm down. I remember her hands on my face. After that... My next memory is waking up in a hospital bed." 

Phil frowned at him, obviously confused about something. "I thought Duquesne was responsible for your back."

"My back was a couple days before this," Clint told him. His admission saw Phil frowning intently. 

"He must have whipped your back bloody to leave behind those scars." It wasn't a question, but that didn't stop Clint from nodding his response. Phil's frown intensified. "No wonder Natasha was trying to scare people off. You have absolutely no self-preservation, do you?"

Clint wanted to be offended by Phil's harsh words, but he really had no right to be offended. Because Phil was right. It was only through the grace of some higher power, and Natasha, that Clint hadn't gotten himself killed before now. "Apparently not," he answered even though Phil's question was more rhetorical than anything. His admission earned him a small smile. 

"The next time you decide you want to do something like this for me, you will discuss it with me," Phil told him, voice stern. "Do you understand me, Clint? Because if you pull another stunt like this, I will punish you with no sex for a month. We both know how hard that will be for you." 

"Come on, Phil. That's not fair," Clint replied, even though he knew it was beyond fair. The other man rolled his eyes and traced another scar, then lifted his hand and once again laid it against Clint's cheek. His fingers stroked over his flesh slowly.

"Do you know how long that session lasted?" Clint shook his head. He had no idea how long it had actually lasted. All he knew was it felt like it had been a lifetime. "You had the blindfold on for less than two minutes, Clint. Less than two minutes. It took you almost no time to start panicking. Seeing you like that scared me. And I was honestly afraid you wouldn't use your safe word with me." 

Clint wanted to look away because he was ashamed of his behavior. But Phil's gaze held his, the softness in the man's eyes welcoming and comfortable. Safe. Phil leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to Clint's lips. Pulled back before Clint could even think to deepen it. "Thank you for trusting me with that, Clint. I know how difficult that must have been." 

"I fucked this evening up royally," Clint said.

Phil stared at him for a few moments, then inched closer to him. One arm slid around Clint's shoulders to pull him into Phil's body. Clint recognized the move for what it was and pressed himself against Phil. His head settled on Phil's shoulder and his far arm wrapped itself around Phil's abdomen. One of Phil's hands reached up to sift through Clint's hair. "No. You made a mistake. Which you're going to never do again. Right?" 

Phil's voice was stern, edged with that nameless quality that forced Clint to listen to him. "Promise." 

"It isn't that I don't appreciate that you wanted to do something for me, Clint. But I don't ever want you to think that you have to give me something you're not comfortable giving. Part of the relationship between us is based on trust, you know." 

"I know, Phil. And I do trust you."

Phil's fingers tightened on his hair and gave a slight tug. A thin layer of pain blossomed under Clint's scalp and he had to fight to respond to it. This wasn't one of those moments. Phil was still trying to make his point. "Do you?" 

"Yes. I know you won't hurt me." Clint must have been feeling more himself because he pressed a kiss to the skin exposed by Phil's unbuttoned shirt. "And it isn't like you can't hurt me. But you should ask first." 

"Idiot. You know what I mean," Phil said dryly. "And I'm starting to have my doubts about whether you really do or not, Clint." Clint took advantage of his position and pinched Phil's side. Phil used the hand in Clint's hair to pull his head up so that they could look one another in the eye. "I hurt you tonight because you weren't honest with me. I don't want to do that again. I don't like seeing you like that."

Clint made a face at that. "I'm sorry. I really am. And I'll do whatever I can to prove it to you. Whatever you want." 

Phil smiled, all warm and soft and knowing. There was a mischievous look in his eyes that Clint knew well. "Whatever I want? That's a dangerous offer to make. Maybe I'll take you up on it at another time. For now, we'll go back to trust. And we'll work on that." 

"Right. Trust." Clint made sure to pout for Phil, jutting his lower lip out to show the other man how he felt about that. "Can we start tonight?" 

Phil studied him for a few moments. "Maybe. What did you have in mind?" 

"Kisses," Clint replied. Phil gave him a skeptical look. Obviously he thought Clint was angling for more. "Just kisses. I promise. I know how you feel about sex after a scene goes bad. I just want to kiss you for being the best and most amazing boyfriend on the face of the planet."

"Just kisses," Phil told him after several seconds of consideration. Clint smiled and climbed into his lap, then leaned forward to take Phil's lips with his own. His hands slid under the lapels of the man's shirt so that he could brush his fingers over Phil's nipples and trace the curve of his ribcage. Phil's hands cupped Clint's ass and pulled him close. 

They kissed with mouths wide open, with tongues sliding against one another. They kissed until they were breathless and had to break apart to draw air into their lungs. They kissed until Clint forgot his name. They kissed until he was lost to the feel of Phil's body against his own. They kissed until Clint begged Phil to fuck him on the couch. They kissed until Phil said no. 

And then they kissed some more.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to take this opportunity to state that my knowledge of the lifestyle is pretty limited. Much of what I've done here is based on what I do know, but it is not meant to accurately represent actual BDSM practices. There is likely a good amount of fantasy or hand waving involved in the creation of this story. However, I did try to show a healthy relationship, one that is based on mutual trust and communication. If I have, in any way, included any glaring inaccuracies or displayed behaviors that are not part of this lifestyle, those are through my own ignorance and nothing else. My main objective was to tell a good story while incorporating this world into the fic. My apologies if I've done anything wrong and I welcome the opportunity to learn about any of my mistakes in the form of constructive criticism and intelligent, open discussion.
> 
> (this paragraph was in the notes on _The Red Room_ and i thought it was prudent to use it in my notes here on this story as well.)


End file.
